Gustavo’s 4AM Filipino Morning Routine: Coffee, Cigarettes & Sarcastic Work Chat

At 4:00 AM, the town still lay beneath its blanket of silence. Gustavo’s alarm erupted—a shrill, unforgiving shriek—yanking him from half-dreams. He groaned, limbs heavy as wet towels, and fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand. Each movement felt like wading through molasses; even blinking cost effort.

In the kitchen, he set the kettle on its burner, hands trembling as he measured three spoonfuls of coffee and three of creamer into his chipped mug. No sugar, because at this hour sweetness was a luxury. Steam hissed from the spout, and when the first drop of boiling water hit the powder, Gustavo flinched as if stung.

Cradling the hot mug, he dragged himself into the garage. The morning air hit him like a wall. He sank into his rickety chair, struck a match against the mug’s chipped rim, and lit a Chesterfield. His first drag was a lungful of protest; he closed his eyes, tracing the trail of smoke as it curled toward the low ceiling.

His phone buzzed on the workbench. Eyes half-lidded, he read the group chat: “Who’s not coming to work? Please advise?” Another drag of cigarette. Gustavo cracked a crooked smile—sarcasm creeping into his voice before he even typed.  

“Absolutely, I’ll have to skip today. My sister’s neighbor’s cousin was rushed to the vet with monkeynucleosis. Tragic, really.”  

He hit send, then chuckled—a hollow sound, more out of habit than humor. "Not even on clock yet", he quiiped.

Dragging himself inside, he braced under the icy spray of the shower. Water slammed into his shoulders, jolting his spine upright. His teeth chattered, and he let out a ragged laugh as Faith No More’s “Kindergarten” erupted from the speaker, reverberating off the tile.

Dressed in a crisp shirt but bare of socks and shoes, he wrestled with his collar before ducking into the garage. He poured kibble for the dogs, their excited barking tripping him up as he staggered back to the car. The engine turned over with a lazy cough; he cracked the windows and lit one last cigarette, smoke swirling with exhaust. Dawn’s first rays pierced the horizon, and neighbor by neighbor, lights blinked on.

Gustavo settled behind the wheel, shoulders slumped. Fifteen minutes late, but who’d notice? He took a long drag, exhaled into the mirror, and whispered, “Here we go again,” before easing the car forward into the waking street.